Loves Choices

Of the Hope she knew, all she recognised was the small triangular face. Gone were the awkward coltish limbs, the girl’s body; the reflection staring back at her showed her a tall slim creature, far too elegant to bear any relation to the person she knew herself to be, her eyes a smoky lilac, reflecting the undertones of the grey silk.

Madame, however, was not as awed by the transformation as Hope herself. ‘And now,’ she said ominously, ‘the hair and the face. There is a salon several doors down. My assistant will take you there. I shall tell her to wait for you and return with you when Rafael has finished!’

Rafael and his staff were every bit as alarming as Hope had dreaded, although a little to her surprise he echoed the Comte’s decree that to cut her hair would be a crime.

‘It is untidy at the ends, si,’ he agreed, examining it closely, ‘but wait until they are trimmed and your hair has been conditioned. Tying it back as you do is not good for the texture,’ he disapproved, frowning over the thick barrette Hope used to secure her hair out of the way, ‘and your skin! Do you never use moisturiser?’ he demanded with further disapproval.

Hope felt disinclined to tell him that the nuns favoured soap and water and that the girls were not allowed to use make-up at the convent, although many of the girls did experiment in secret with cosmetics purchased when they were at home on holiday.

Her hair was shampooed and conditioned and then trimmed before Rafael pronounced himself satisfied and handed Hope over to the ministrations of a pretty dark-haired girl, her still-wet hair wrapped in a towel.

The girl introduced herself as Ana, and although Hope sensed her curiosity when her client admitted to having no knowledge at all about applying cosmetics, she did not ask any questions, simply showing Hope patiently and carefully how she could make the best of her features, telling her that she was lucky in her bone-structure which would outlive mere youthful prettiness, and adding that Hope’s eyes were especially beautiful.

Having feared from the length of time Ana took over cleansing and then painting her skin, that she would end up looking like a china doll, Hope was astonished when Ana finally swung her round in her chair to face the mirror. A subtle rose glow shone against her cheekbones, highlighting their shape, her eyes mysteriously darker and larger than she remembered, her mouth tremulous and curving warmly pink against the paleness of her skin.

While Hope came to terms with her new image, Ana wrote out a chart showing what colours and cosmetics she had used, which she passed to Hope along with an ornate box filled with cosmetics, all of which Ana assured her she would need to use.

Then it was back to Rafael for her hair to be blown dry, Hope openly astonished by the shining waves he coaxed from what she had always been convinced was perfectly straight hair, now subtly shaped to frame her face and cascade over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later, standing in Madame’s shop, her new clothes stored in the shiny black boxes with gold lettering on them, Hope felt her nervousness increase, her fingers itching to touch the silken fineness of her hair. But the habits instilled at the convent went too deep to permit her to fidget or in any way betray her inner anxiety. Outwardly she looked so calm and composed that Madame, who had been apt to dismiss her as a naïve, rather stupid child, revised her opinion. Telling herself that she recognised a well-brought-up young girl when she saw one, she unbent enough to assure Hope that the Comte would not keep her waiting very long.

Almost before she had finished speaking the door opened and the Comte paused, framed there, nowhere near as out of place in the essentially female surroundings as Hope would have imagined. No doubt he was perfectly accustomed to buying his women-friends clothes, Hope thought distastefully. Although in many ways naïve, she was by no means unaware of the relationships entered into by men like the Comte; rich worldly men who could afford to pay for their pleasure and then discard their playthings when they grew bored, with scant regard for any pain they might cause.

The Reverend Mother would have been shocked had she known of the dislike for the Comte which had already taken deep root in her heart, Hope acknowledged, unaware of the picture she made as she waited, unmoving and hesitant, a pale silver girl whose fragility made the man watching her feel that she might break between his hands if he attempted to touch her.

She would serve his purpose even better than he supposed. Sir Henry was a very clever man. With such tempting bait, no wonder he was so sure of persuading Alain Montrachet to take it. An innocent bride for the white hope of the house of Montrachet; a bride to bear the sons who would one day inherit the Montrachet name; a child untouched by man or the corruption of what he had made of his world—a beautiful innocent.

He looked at her, knowing all that he planned for her, untouched by compassion or second thoughts, and Hope, watching him, suddenly realised where she had seen such a face before; an illustration of the young men of Tsar Alexander’s Imperial Guard at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Among them had been men with just such bone-structures, proudly arrogant, haughtily disdainful, dangerously wild for all their veneer of sophistication.

‘Well, Hope, if you’re ready?’ His tone was so calm and mundane that Hope thought for a moment that someone else spoke, but no, the Comte was holding the door open politely for her, and outside the snarling Ferrari awaited them, while Madame smiled obsequiously as they made their goodbyes.

On the pavement, Hope hesitated. The Comte opened the car door for her, letting her get settled as he put her boxes in the boot, and then went round to his own door. When he was inside, and she had safely managed to secure her seat-belt, she blurted out impulsively, ‘Do you … do you have Russian blood in you, Comte?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. Her comment was impolite. The nuns had taught her never to ask personal questions, but somehow the question asked itself.

‘Some,’ he agreed, watching her, making her wonder what thoughts went on behind those green eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

Haltingly, she told him about the illustrations. ‘So … you are learning Russian? You obviously have a talent for languages. My mother was Russian,’ he explained. ‘Her parents left Russia during the Revolution. Fortunately they were among the lucky ones. My grandfather had investments in Paris and they were able to live comfortably, if not in the same style they had known in St Petersburg; and certainly well enough for my mother to be considered a more than adequate match for my father, and the Serivace title.

‘The Serivace name is an old one,’ he further explained when he saw that she was frowning. ‘It goes back to before the French Revolution, but then I suppose the good sisters have taught you that pride is a sin, as indeed is vanity,’ he added half mockingly, making Hope wonder if he had guessed how bemused she was by her altered appearance and was simply changing the subject.

‘You would be well advised to try and get some sleep, mon petit,’ he added. ‘We have a long drive ahead of us. I do not want to stop until we reach Serivace.’

‘Serivace?’

‘My estate.’ He glanced at her, and then smiled. ‘It is very beautiful. You will like it.’ But he made no mention of her father and when she could expect to be reunited with him, and all at once Hope sensed that to ask this man any questions he did not want to answer would be a foolish and pointless exercise.

‘All in good time, mon petit,’ she heard him murmur as she obediently tried to relax and closed her eyes, giving the disconcerting impression that he had seen into her mind and read the thoughts imprinted there as clearly as though her forehead were a sheet of glass.

CHAPTER TWO

HOPE woke several hours later, stiff and uncomfortable, despite the fact that the Comte had reclined her seat for her. He seemed to know by some sixth sense that she was awake and she felt the decrease in speed of the powerful car as he turned to her. ‘Do you feel better for your sleep?’

Hope managed a smile. In point of fact she felt terrible—her head ached and she felt vaguely nauseous, her body stiff from lying too long in the same position.

‘You are not well?’ The Comte frowned as he looked into her pale face. ‘What is it?’

‘A headache,’ Hope told him, ‘but it is nothing. It will soon go.’

‘It’s probably the result of too much excitement,’ the Comte said wryly. ‘I forget that your convent life has not prepared you for the hurly-burly of real life.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we had better find somewhere to stay tonight and then continue our journey tomorrow. When I said we would drive straight to Serivace I had forgotten that you are not as used to travelling as I am myself.’

Hope wanted to protest. She didn’t want to spend any more time with the Comte then she needed to.

‘I shall not eat you, mon petit,’ she heard the Comte drawl mockingly above her. ‘The good Sisters should have taught you that it is not always wise to look at a man the way you are looking at me. Your eyes have all the dread and fear of the persecuted for the persecutor, and who would blame me, if, when I look into them, I am tempted to make your fears reality.’ He saw her flinch and smiled. ‘You shrink from shadows, Hope. Do you really fear me so much?’

His mockery brought a flash of rebellion to Hope’s eyes. She was not so foolish that she didn’t know when she was being deliberately baited. The nuns had taught their pupils from an early age to give respect and obedience to their elders, and the fact that the Comte was her father’s friend, coupled with his manner towards her, had made Hope defer to him. Now she faced him with stormy eyes, her slender body braced against retaliation as she said defiantly, ‘I am not afraid of you, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘Just as cautious as a gazelle penned up with a leopard,’ the Comte added wryly. ‘Tell me, how long is it since you last saw your father?’

Not sure what had prompted the change of conversation, but nonetheless grateful for it, Hope told him.

‘Two years?’ His eyebrows drew together, darkly.

‘My father has many business interests, it is not always possible for him to visit me, and … and during the holidays there is not always someone to accompany me …’

‘But now you are no longer a schoolgirl, but a young woman. Have you any plans for your future?’ He was talking to her now more in the manner she would expect a man of his years and sophistication to address her, and Hope did her best to respond, explaining that the training at the convent did not really equip its pupils for careers.

‘Other than the time-honoured one of marriage,’ the Comte agreed dryly. ‘Is that what you want, mon petit? To go from the schoolroom to the bedroom?’ He saw that he had shocked her, watching the colour come and go in her face.

‘Come,’ he murmured, glancing sardonically at her. ‘You are not going to tell me that the nuns kept you in complete ignorance of the “facts of life"? There must have been holidays, encounters with attractive young men who were only too willing to add practical knowledge to theory.

‘No!’ Hope’s shocked denial silenced him for several seconds, while she sat bolt upright in her seat, her body trembling with rejection of his suggestion, her mind unable to analyse why it should have provoked such a strong response. After all, many of her fellow pupils had indulged in just the sort of experimentation the Comte had so mockingly described, and although she had never been included in the excited midnight discussions about them, she was not so naïve that she didn’t know that there was far more to human relationships than the cold, dry facts presented to them during their lectures.

‘No?’ The Comte pulled off the main road, bringing the car to a halt beside a field. They were in the middle of the country and Hope noticed absently that the crop was growing, green-gold fields stretching into the distance, an ancient stone castle perched precariously among the foothills which marked the beginning of the sierras.

Her profile averted from her companion, she tensed when his fingers cupped her jaw, forcing her to face his enigmatic green gaze.

‘No?’ he repeated queryingly. ‘Not even so much as a stolen kiss, ma jolie?’

Sensing the mockery behind the question, Hope blushed hotly, hating the way he was exposing her life, her inadequacies, because hadn’t she secretly wondered what it would be like to share the giggled confidences of the others? Hadn’t she secretly lain awake in her bed wondering why she felt none of their desire?

‘There is no one to steal kisses from behind the walls of the convent,’ she retorted bravely at last, ‘except for Father Ignacio who comes to hear our confessions. My father wouldn’t let me spend my holidays with my friends and …’ She broke off, hating herself for confiding so much to him. Now, doubtless, he would tell her father what she had said and she burned with embarrassment and humiliation. How gauche and disloyal her father would think her.

‘So!’ His gaze rested disturbingly on her lips, and Hope could almost feel the soft flesh burn from the contact. She longed for him to look away, but his fingers still cupped her jaw, curling against her skin, his thumb gently stroking along the bone, quivers of sensation spreading from the point where his flesh touched hers. Her mouth had gone dry, her lips parting on a small sound of protest, turning to a shocked gasp when the Comte rubbed his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip, his free hand grasping her wrists as though he sensed her intention to thrust him away. His dark head descended, and the brush of his mouth against hers caused Hope to tense and stiffen, confused by her conflicting emotions. On the one hand was shock, outrage that he should trespass on his friendship with her father, on the other was this curious, languorous sensation that the brush of his lips against hers evoked, making her want to slide her hands over his dark-suited shoulders, explore the shape and feel of him, while his mouth continued to …

With a horrified cry, Hope tore herself out of his grasp, her eyes huge and deeply violet in her small face, her fingers fluttering betrayingly to touch the quivering softness of her lips. Was that compassion she read in the darkness of his eyes? Or was it scorn for her lack of expertise, her inexperience?

‘Well, mon petit? Is your curiosity now satisfied? Do you no longer envy your schoolfriends their little experiments?’

Hope sat immobile with despair and hatred in her heart. Not even her most secret thoughts were safe from this man. Had he known also that she had looked at his mouth and wondered what it would be like to have it touch her own? She had quenched the thought almost at birth, shocked and disturbed by it, but somehow he had known.

‘What’s the matter? Did the good Sisters tell you that such intimacies should only be shared with your husband, that no one should touch those soft lips but him?’

‘I am not quite a fool, monsieur,’ Hope managed stiffly. ‘I am well aware that it amuses you to … to torment me.’

She heard him laugh soundlessly as he re-started the car, and turned back to the main road. Was he married, she wondered curiously. Did he have a family of his own?

‘There is a small town a few miles away, where we can spend the night,’ she was informed as the Ferrari ate up the miles. ‘The hotel was once the home of a local family, but it has now been taken over by the government and opened as an exclusive hostería.

Several miles on they came to the town. The road had started to climb into the foothills, and to Hope’s surprise, their destination turned out to be the castle she had noticed before.

‘A fitting setting for you, Hope,’ the Comte murmured lazily as he stopped the car. ‘We shall have to ask them if they can find a turret room for you. You have all the inviolate innocence of a fairy princess.’

She wasn’t given a turret room, but the room she was given was far more luxurious than anything she was used to, Hope admitted, smoothing the heavy bedspread over the carved four-poster which dominated the room. Her room had an adjoining bathroom, and she secured her hair on top of her head, almost filling the bath with hot water, indulging in the pleasure of soaking her aching limbs in the scented water. Outside, dusk had fallen. The Comte had suggested that she should eat in her room, and she wasn’t disposed to argue with him. She didn’t feel hungry, and all she wanted to do was to sleep. Tomorrow, she hoped, she would see her father. Why didn’t she feel more excited at the thought? Perhaps her senses had been blunted by too much excitement, after being starved of it, Hope thought wryly, stepping out of the bath and drying herself, studying her reflection wonderingly in the full-length mirror, her eyes drawn to the pointed thrust of her breasts, taut and firm, the skin silky-smooth. A strange sensation curled through the pit of her stomach, her eyes darkening as she remembered how the Comte had kissed her. She must not think about it! Shivering with reaction, Hope looked for her robe, remembering that she had left it in her room.

When she opened her bedroom door she realised someone had been in her room. The lamps had been switched on, her nightdress lay across the bed, and a small enclosed electric trolley was pulled up against a small table. Her supper, no doubt. She walked towards the bed, stiffening with shock as something moved in the shadows beyond the lamps, and the Comte’s lean figure detached itself from the darkness.

Every instinct screamed for her to cover her nakedness from him, but strangely she could not move, her muscles locked in paralysing terror as she stared up at him as he studied her body with a clinical detachment that broke through her fear, freeing her to reach shakily for her robe, wishing it was her old school one and not this flimsy fine silk which merely clothed her body rather than concealed it.

‘I’m sorry, Hope, I didn’t realise you hadn’t heard me.’ It was the first time he had apologised to her, and Hope sensed that it was genuinely meant. ‘I did knock,’ he continued, ‘but you obviously didn’t hear me. They have brought our dinner—come and sit down.’

For the first time Hope noticed that he, too, had changed. His darkly formal suit had given way to a thin silk shirt that made her disturbingly aware of the male body beneath it, with dark, thigh-hugging pants moulding his legs.

When they were both seated, the Comte indicated the trolley and smiled, asking Hope if she would like to serve them or if she would prefer him to do it.

This, at least, was an area in which she was proficient, Hope thought, approaching the trolley. All the girls at the convent were taught how to be perfect hostesses, and even with the Comte’s eyes on her, she managed to serve their soup dexterously and properly.

‘It seems to me that your convent teaches the more old-fashioned virtues; the womanly arts rather than commercial ones,’ the Comte murmured when Hope removed the soup bowls and served the main course, a rich chicken paella.

‘Many of the pupils come from the Latin American countries,’ Hope told him. ‘Their parents normally arrange their marriages for them, and as they are invariably wealthy and socially prominent, it is important that they are able to conduct themselves properly.’

‘But you are the exception to the rule?’ the Comte prodded. ‘No marriage has been arranged for you?’

Hope’s revolted expression gave her away. ‘So what are your plans for your life? Do you expect to act as your father’s hostess?’

Hope did have some hazy idea that this was what might happen to her. Her own feeling was that, having placed her in the convent, her father had turned his mind to other matters. As an English girl, the thought of an arranged marriage was totally abhorrent to her, and she had often wished rebelliously that her father had allowed her to have a more normal upbringing. Perhaps now she would be able to persuade him to let her go to college, to gain some commercial skills.

‘What do you do, Comte?’ Hope questioned politely, remembering the Sisters’ lectures on conversation. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Hope hated him for laughing at her.

‘That is very good, mon petit,’ he mocked, watching her fingers tighten on her knife and fork. ‘But it is customary to show a little more enthusiasm. Your stilted enquiry reminds me of a child reciting its lessons. However, I shall answer you, since conversation, like any other skill, only comes with practice.’

For some reason his words made Hope remember how he had kissed her. Was that another field in which he found her lamentably lacking? What did it matter if he did? she asked herself crossly.

‘As I have already told you, my mother was Russian. My father’s family owned vineyards near Beaune. Some of the wines we produce are what is known as Premier Cru.’ He saw Hope’s expression and smiled. ‘Ah, so the Sisters have taught you something about the world, mon petit?’

‘I know of the great vintages, the classifications for wine.’

‘So! You will understand then when I tell you that Serivace wines are Premier Cru wines. This was so in my grandfather’s time, as it is during mine. I have other estates, near Nice, which I visit during the summer; during the winter I stay in Paris where I have an apartment. I am considered a moderately wealthy man, not perhaps wealthy enough to merit one of the docile doves of your convent as a bride, mon petit, but certainly no pauper.’

‘You aren’t married, then?’

When he shook his head, Hope asked hesitantly, ‘Do you have any family?’

Was it her imagination or did he pause fractionally before answering? Whatever the case, there was certainly no trace of hesitation in his voice when he responded firmly, ‘None. One day I shall marry—I owe it to my name to ensure that there will be someone to follow me, but that day has not arrived yet.

‘It is a tradition in our family that the men do not marry early. My father was forty when he married my mother.’ Just for a moment, with the lamplight casting shadows along the high cheekbones, he looked sinister and withdrawn, more Russian than French, and Hope’s heart beat fiercely as she acknowledged that no matter how sophisticated he appeared, somewhere inside that sleekly suave covering was hidden all the ruthless passion of his Russian ancestry. ‘What is the matter, ma jolie?’

Hope hadn’t realised that he was watching her, studying the pensive thoughtfulness of her eyes and the vulnerability of her mouth.

‘Nothing—I was just wondering about my father,’ she told him huskily. ‘It is so long since I have seen him.’

‘And you fear that you will meet as strangers?’ he asked perceptively. ‘Do not. I am sure you are all that your papa hopes you will be—and more,’ he added almost beneath his breath, ‘much, much more,’ leaving Hope to puzzle over what he had said as she picked at her vanilla dessert and watched him eat cheese and biscuits, fascinated against her will by the lean masculine fingers; the taut planes of his shadowed face.

‘It is time you were in bed,’ he announced eventually. ‘You are falling asleep in your seat. Such a baby still—would you like me to carry you to bed and kiss you goodnight?’ He caught the tiny fluttering movement of rejection she made and laughed softly. ‘How very confusing it is, isn’t it, little one? The good Sisters tell you one thing and your body tells you another.’ He stood up and came round to stand beside her, bending to take her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a child, carrying her to her bed, her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, her senses absorbing the scent and feel of him as he pulled back the covers and placed her carefully on the bed. He folded the covers back over her, the lean fingers of one hand resting briefly on the pale flesh of her shoulder before they were withdrawn and he was gone.

After the door had closed behind him, Hope didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that touched her body so achingly. But surely it must be relief? She couldn’t have wanted him to kiss her again!

‘If you are now ready, I suggest we continue our journey.’ They had breakfasted on soft, warm rolls and fresh apricot jam, and Hope felt as though she could never eat another thing. Today she was wearing a pleated skirt with a toning blouson top in soft green silk. Her hair had retained its new style and she had found it easier to apply her new make-up than she had anticipated, any nervous trembling of her fingers surely more due to the thought of coming face to face with the Comte again rather than anything else.

In the event she need not have worried, the half-frightening, taunting man she remembered from the evening had been banished and in his place was a smiling, almost avuncular man she couldn’t recognise at all.

They drove all through the morning, the tapes the Comte inserted into the machine on the dashboard obviating the need for any conversation, allowing Hope to concentrate on the scenery, lulled by the music.

At lunchtime the Comte pulled off the main road and drove into a small, French market town, parking the car on the forecourt of what he told her had once been a famous coaching inn.

The building was old, wreathed in wisteria, heavy racemes of violet-purple flowers hanging from its branches. The owner led them to their table himself, hovering solicitously to proffer advice on the menu. At first Hope supposed this was because the Comte was known to him, but when he had disappeared to greet some other diners, the Comte explained to her that lunch was often the main meal of the day in French households and that this particular auberge had a particularly good reputation.

‘Since we are travelling again this afternoon and cannot drowse off the effects of a heavy meal, I suggest we confine ourselves to three courses,’ he added with a humorous smile. ‘Would you like me to choose for you?’

Shaking her head, Hope reached for the menu. The Sisters had taught their pupils well, and when she had made her choice and conveyed it to the waiter in correct and fluent French she had the gratification of knowing she had not let them down.

The food was everything Hope had expected it would be and she had not made the mistake of ordering anything too rich or heavy. Meals at the convent were always light, but carefully balanced, and Hope found that she had automatically chosen with the same careful precision. When she shook her head over a sweet the Comte raised his eyebrows a little. Hope had been surprised to see that he too was equally selective and that his plate, while it held more food than hers, showed a healthy regard for the nutritional value of food rather than simply its taste.

‘You surprise me, mon petit,’ he commented when the waiter had withdrawn. ‘I thought a sweet tooth was the prerogative of the very young.’

‘Ice-cream and sticky cakes, monsieur?’ Hope queried with a smile, shaking her head as she explained the lectures all the students were given by the convent’s dietician.

‘So, what you are saying is that we are what we eat?’ he asked when she had finished. ‘That is true to a large extent, but one must make allowances for other … desires. One is not simply a machine functioning on fuel, one must allow for the needs of the senses.’

‘You didn’t drink any wine with your meal,’ Hope pointed out. ‘Nor did you have any rich sauces.’

‘The fact that I am driving precludes me from enjoying a good wine as it should be enjoyed, and as to my food—’ He looked at her, and Hope found herself trembling a little beneath the look in his eyes. ‘Make no mistake, mon petit, no matter how nutritious or excellent the food, were it not attractively served, and presented, as tempting to the palate as to the eyes, I should not touch it. We are given our senses so that we may enjoy our environment through them whether it be the sense of taste, or the sense of touch.’ As he spoke his eyes rested on her body and Hope felt almost as though he had touched her. What would it be like to be made love to by a man like him, Hope wondered, so startled by the way the thought had crept unbidden into her mind that she wasn’t aware of the way her eyes mirrored her thoughts, or of how she was observed by the man seated opposite her.

It was late afternoon before they entered what the Comte told her was the Burgundy region of France. His own estate lay to the north-east, he added. The scenery of the Côte-d’Or as they drove through made Hope catch her breath, her eyes rounding in awe, forgetting her tiredness as she saw the vineyards, interspersed with tantalising glimpses of châteaux and weathered farmhouses, with the word clos constantly appearing on signboards. It referred to enclosed vineyards, the Comte explained to her; vineyards which had once belonged to large convents or monasteries, and which still retained their enclosing walls.

‘Are your vineyards like that?’ Hope asked him, suddenly curious to know more about his home.

‘No. The Serivace lands are too extensive to be enclosed, although there is one small clos not far from the … house.’

He didn’t seem disposed to talk any more, and Hope lapsed into silence, tension knotting her stomach, although she was at a loss to understand why.

At last they turned off the main road, taking a narrow, badly tarmacked track, barely wide enough for the Ferrari, and open to acres of vines on either side.